


How I Met My Brother

by Nolesr1



Series: Alfred and the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 'Brothers', Alfred is not amused either, Animosity, Arthur is a little shit, But they're all dorks, Francis does not like this, Francis is a jerk, M/M, Not very friendly, They all barely tolerate each other, Though it is kind of understandable, first meetings aren't always the best, mentions of Kiku, reactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolesr1/pseuds/Nolesr1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because of some positive feedback from 'I Hate My Life By Alfred Jones' This is a prequal--this is how they all met and, let me just say, it does not go over well. Francis is a jerk and extremely unimpressed with his 'little brother'. Arthur's a little shit. Alfred is just so done with both of them. Ah, the joys of the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Met My Brother

Francis stares out through the open window disdainfully, waiting for the moment when _he_ steps out of the car, ready to claim an inheritance that he no doubt has never heard about until very recently.

 _Americans_.

“Well,” a familiarly accented voice drawls from behind him. “ _That’s_ not a pretty face.”

 Francis sneers out the window one last time before turning to face the owner of the voice. Arthur Kirkland, the seventh in line for the English throne and Francis’ sworn frenemy-slash-lover for years. The Alpha glares coolly at the unimpressed Englishman—also an Alpha—before twirling around and striding to the seat in the far corner. A chair, Francis knows, that has been in the family for years, centuries. How does he know this? Why, because he has been raised in this wealth and has been taught with these pieces of history since he was a tiny child.

Unlike some… _American_ who thinks that just because thei— _his_ father was unable to control his most basic needs that he deserves a share in a wealth that stretches back farther than some mere farmboy could ever comprehend.

“Do shut-up, _sourcils_ ,” Francis drawls as he leans back against the arm of the chair and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. “Though you no doubt find your own commentary funny, I can assure you it’s anything but.”

Arthur snorts and rises from his seat, taking slow, deliberate steps towards Francis’ abandoned posts. Despite his anger, Francis takes a moment to study the other Alpha’s well-toned physique: the graceful arch of the back; the smooth, pale skin only interrupted by a handful of freckles and only during certain seasons; the sharpness of the shoulder blades that (Francis thinks somewhat smugly) are covered by irritated marks that look much like nails; a gracefully sloped neck, covered in bite marks (Francis knows that Arthur will get him back for that later); slightly narrowed shoulders that are not exactly common amongst Alphas; all of this leading down to a narrow waist. Though the smaller Alpha is mostly sharp angles and points, there is still visible muscle, sinewy and graceful. The male before him could easily pass for some archaic god—all beauty and angles with a sharp wit and a sharper tongue.

The picture is only perfected by the fact that his current-lover is covered in nothing more than a bedsheet that he had oh-so-thoughtfully taken from Francis’ bed.

“When is the Yank coming?” Arthur asks and Francis can tell by the shifting of muscles and the way that Arthur leans that he is crossing his arms.

At the mention of the _boy_ , Francis’ mood darkens considerably and he leans back, legs still gracefully crossed, and rests his elbow on the arm of the chair. He attempts to rub away the slowly growing ache behind his eyes.

“ _Maman_ said about _trois heures de l'après-midi_.”

Arthur snorts, “Kindly refrain from speaking that language with me around,” he states, his tone bordering on an order. If not for the fact that both Alphas knew that ordering each other around would be futile, Francis would have probably told his exactly where _sourcils_ can shove his Francophobic tendencies.

As it is, though, Francis only chuckles, still rubbing his forehead, “If you did not wish to hear the beautiful language of _l’amour_ then you should have chosen another summer home to reside in, _mon ami_.” 

“Please, and miss the chance of seeing you explode? What kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t here to cheer you up when mummy found herself a new toy-thing to dress up?”

Before Francis has a chance to retort, Arthur stiffens and Francis swears that he hears the sound of a motor. He drops his hands and rises from his seat, striding over to where Arthur is standing and stops next to him, both staring out the window.

They watch as the newest model of the family Lamborghini pulls up into the _allée_ _de gravier._

Francis feels himself tense when the motor stops and the car in the front is still. Then, before their eyes, the family’s chauffeur, Sebastien, steps out from the driver’s side and slowly approaches the door, every action completely visible to the watching Alphas.

Sebastien opens the car door and stands aside for the boy to make his entrance. Sebastien, Francis notes, possesses a refinement that would make him suitable for almost anything involving the higher-class.

The boy that all but literally stumbles out of the car, however, does not.

Francis sneers and Arthur snickers as the clumsy boy— _the oaf_ stumbles forward, nearly falling to his knees. Francis watches as Sebastien asks him something, no doubt inquiring about his health, before the boy waves his concerns off.

From the distance, the only thing that Francis can make out is a head full of golden-blonde hair, perhaps a well-enough physique, and a plain white t-shirt.

All probably bought from an American _Target_.

Francis has a feeling that his expressions of disdain will only grow and evolve over the boy’s time here.

“Congrats, mate,” Arthur drawls, still chuckling softly from beside him. “My wager is that he’s an Omega. An infuriating one at that. Makes you wonder what his dear ole’ mum is like, doesn’t it?”

“Of course,” Francis huffs as both Alphas step away from the window in an effort to avoid watching that embarrassing spectacle of a human being. “My _père_ was many things but he would never spawn something as humiliating as… _that_.”

Beside him, Arthur chuckles lowly. The same sound Francis hears in their early mornings/late nights rendezvous. The sound that’s strangely reminiscent of rolling thunder in the distance.

Francis turns to face the shorter man just as he suddenly finds the need to stretch his arms over his head, the sinewy muscle flexing beneath his skin and that damnable bedcover falling merely a centimeter down the man’s hip.

Francis wants to curse the sheet, but he now gets a _beau_ sight of his lover’s sharp hips.

Before Francis can make a request on where he thinks that sheet should be, the door to the room the two are in opens, revealing Francis’ mother, Marquise Danielle Bonnefoy. The Lady Bonnefoy to strangers and acquaintances alike; _maman_ to Francis; and _tante_ Danielle to Arthur and his kin.

The Marquise stands, the picture of elegance with her long, dark-brown hair piled atop her head, her make-up and outfit flawless, and her smile bright.

Francis studies her with surprise. Though he knows his mother would hardly be cold-hearted to the boy, he hadn’t exactly expected her to greet him by _beaming_. His mother is far kinder than Francis honestly thinks is necessary.

“ _Maman_ ,” Francis greets her guardedly at the same time that Arthur echoes a faintly sheepish,

“Hullo, _tante_ Danielle.”

 _Maman_ blinks at the two, no doubt wanting to ask why the boy she sees as practically a son— _a real one_ , Francis thinks, _a child that she’s seen grow up from childhood to adulthood: a_ real _son_ —is wearing nothing more than a bedsheet and covered in red marks. Francis wonders what his _maman’s_ reaction would be to the pretty scratches that are currently taking residence on Arthur’s pale shoulders.

An Alpha-Alpha relationship in society was a bit of a taboo, really. Much like two Omegas together or two Betas. Society says that each sex has their pre-ordained lifestyle and that to trail from the path that has been set for centuries is to court misfortune. Not many, if any, of their friends know about the relationship, only that the two have found a ‘healthier,’ less annoying way to deal with their rivalry.

They also do not know that the numerous scratches and bites on their shoulders are from the other. It is amusing, Francis notes, the looks on their friends’ faces when they see the marks and neither Alpha will tell them. Gilbert is especially amusing because Francis is almost positive that the white-haired boy knows something is amiss.

Francis wonders what his mother is thinking as she studies Arthur with expressionless eyes. Francis thinks that his mother would have made a fabulous Alpha. She does make an amazing Beta, though.

Arthur clears his throat, “I was cold.”

 _Maman_ raises an eyebrow, “So you decided that the best course of action would be to strip down and wear my son’s sheet.”

“It, ahh, seemed like the best idea at the time, to be honest.”

“And the marks on your neck?”

“Must have caught something. Or allergies, perhaps?”

Maman shakes her head and levels a pointed look at the Alpha, “I do not care what you think, nor what you do. If you are here, then you are perfectly capable of meeting young Alfred. After you put some clothes on, that is,” she adds hastily.

Arthur snickers and Francis doesn’t have to be watching Arthur to see the crooked smirk that no doubt is lighting his lover’s face. His mother, though, continues,

“Maybe we can even introduce him to Kiku—“

“ _Non_ ,” Francis interrupts flatly. The idea of his betrothed and that… backwooded American within a mere centimeter of each other is too much. _Francis_ has to suffer the boy’s company, not Kiku. At his side, Francis hears Arthur stifle a cough at the Beta’s name.

Francis’ relationship with Kiku is probably the only thing keeping the paparazzi and every gossip on the continent away from relationship of Arthur and Francis. It helps that the young Beta has literally no desire whatsoever to be involved in any relationship, as well as Kiku being entirely understanding about the whole ordeal. 

His mother studies him and Francis tries to ignore the disappointed light in her gaze.

“ _Ma colombe_ ,” she coos, stepping closer and cupping Francis’ face in both of her hands. “If you could at least try—“

“Try what?” Francis demands, stepping away from her hands and watching somewhat pathetically as her hands drop weightlessly to her side. “Try to… like the boy that showed up, claiming to be the bastard child of my father? Try to… like the _Omega_ that comes here, groveling for some spare change or for something to steal and sell? _Je suis désolé, maman,_ _but I cannot.”_

His mother studies him, disappointment now very evident in her gaze before her eyes harden,

“Come down in five minutes,” she orders, her gaze flicking to Arthur who has remained surprisingly quiet, much to Francis’ shock. “Dressed and ready to meet our newest guest.”

“You mean intruder?” Francis retorts as his mother turns and walks out the door, not once looking back. Francis glares at everything but the still open door and turns to stride towards the window, glaring out at the world before him. He feels a presence at his back but doesn’t turn.

"I can see why your mum didn’t tell you exactly when the Yank was getting here.”

_..._

Alfred sits in what he assumes is the living room awkwardly, trying not to touch anything lest he break something. Seb’s earlier warning to watch out for the young Marquis or whatever the guy’s fucking title was had struck a cord and now Alfred wonders how much longer he’ll have to sit here in this stupid room, waiting for a women who hired him.

Alfred shifts carefully in his seat—which looks to be around a hundred-plus years old, he’s not gonna lie—his hands clasped childishly in his lap. He studies the room with quiet astonishment at the vast history around him. He also wonders why the family would do something as strange as this: weren’t they worried about breaking something? Someone stealing something? Fires? Floods? Anything? Why would they keep things as visibly priceless as all of this out in the open like this?

He shakes his head, amused at the oh-so-European need to display history, but also the very Alpha-esque means of intimidating others. He’s not gonna lie, it _is_ actually intimidating to the young Omega, but it’s more amusing than anything else. His grand-mère’s old phrase of ‘pride goeth before destruction’ comes to mind and Alfred just finds the entire thing ridiculous.

The young Omega stiffens when he hears someone at the door. He subtly reaches for the butterfly knife that he keeps stashed away in his worn shoes, close enough for him to grab and well-hidden enough for no else to find it. Plus, it had been a gift from one of his adopted uncles years ago.

He wonders how they’re doing now. He decides that he’ll ask his supervisor or someone higher up when he next gets the chance.

Suddenly, the door opens, revealing three figures. Alfred, having spent hours studying about all three of these people, recognizes them each almost instantly: Lady Bonnefoy—Beta and head of the house until her son can inherit. Francis Bonnefoy—Alpha and said inheriter of the family’s fabulous wealth; betrothed to a fellow student, a young Beta-Japanese student named Kiku Honda. Finally, right next to Francis stands the haughty figure of Arthur Kirkland: the infamous seventh in-line for the English throne—Alpha, brilliant, sharp as a dagger with a temper to match.

The two young Alphas study the younger boy with cold eyes, neither seeming overtly thrilled to have Alfred there, though the younger boy swears that he sees a trace of wicked humor in the Englishman’s eyes, though it’s gone too quickly.

Lady Bonnefoy is beaming as she steps forward and envelopes him into a surprise hug which ends too quickly for him to return it. The two young Alphas stand near the door, looking as though they’d rather be almost anywhere else. Alfred can’t really blame them.

After a second Lady Bonnefoy steps back, her hands still resting on his arms, a little below his shoulder. She is still smiling up at him. The entire situation is overwhelming, to say the least.

“ _Bonjour_ , Alfred!” The Lady chirps. The other two remain silent. Alfred can feel their gazes burning double holes right through him. Alfred clears his throat.

“ _Bonjour_ , Lady Bonnefoy,” he parrots, keeping his gaze focused on the Lady’s bright blue eyes instead of the other two inhabitants.

At his words, though, the Lady is practically beaming with grace and other adjectives that Alfred honestly can’t think of at the moment. Words, he knows, are not his specialty. She begins prattling on in French, her words too fast and her accent making it that much harder to understand what she’s saying. His blank expression must have been painfully obvious because the man—Francis Bonnefoy—makes an exceedingly derisive noise and says something to his mother.

Alfred can only assume it has something to do with his inability to understand France French. Though he can’t understand the language, he quickly picks up on the tone. Granted, hearing a mother snapping at her child probably sounds the same in any culture, no matter what language they speak.

Trying to keep the peace, as he was hired to do, Alfred raises his hands sheepishly, almost in surrender. Lady Bonnefoy returns her blue eyes to him.

“I know enough French to get me from point A to point B,” he admits somewhat sheepishly as he again tries to ignore the contemptuous laugh that’s no doubt directed towards him. “Greetings are point A.”

Lady Bonnefoy chuckles, her expression softening and her eyes practically glowing and Alfred can see the beauty in her expression that had corralled the Alpha of one of the oldest families in France, maybe even Europe, into her bed. Alfred wonders if there’s a man, women, or anything alive that could resist Lady Bonnefoy.

Alfred glances up when he hears another pointed cough, this time from the Englishman, “though it’s been quite smashing to meet you”—Alfred can tell just by the asshole’s tone that the meeting was anything but _smashing_ —“Francis and I must be going.”

Lord—rude, childish, arrogant—Francis nods in agreement and steps forward, kissing his mother on both cheeks before turning to leave without even gracing Alfred with the blessing of his acknowledgement.

Alfred resists the urge to snort. He knows when the jerk’s birthday is. Bastard is probably gonna get something green and slimy in his bed that night.

At the sound of his name, Alfred returns his attention to Lady Bonnefoy, clearing his expressions and keeping his hands at his side respectively. Years before he would have no doubt dropped his head submissively like a good little Omega, but now he stands proudly and keeps his gaze level with hers.

 _She_ hired _him_. As far as he’s concerned—Alfred thinks of the two assholes quickly—titles be damned. 

“I’m terribly sorry for my son’s atrocious behaviour,” the Lady apologizes, looking as though she genuinely means it. “He is not normally—“

“Given that he’s just been told that he has a little brother then acting that way is normal,” Alfred assures her with a faint smile. “Anyways, this is hardly the worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”

Alfred finds his mind wandering to a variety of other little missions S.H.I.E.L.D had thrown him and his partner, a Beta named Kai, into. Some involving supernatural bits that, to this day, Alfred still can’t wrap his mind around. He quickly shakes these thoughts away to focus. God knows with those memories, the worst ones are sure to follow.

“But he is so…” the Lady answers though her voice trails off as soon as she speaks. She bites her lips nervously, a very un-Beta like action, and then shakes her head, straightening her shoulders and staring Alfred down. “You are to protect him, yes?”

“Of course,” Alfred responds, resisting the urge to add, ‘That’s what you’re paying me to do, after all.’ “Both him and the young prince.”

“You shouldn’t take such a tone with Royalty,” the Lady warns. “Here, Royalty has a certain power.”

Alfred shrugs, “I respect what you’re saying but on that same hand I was never raised with a king or lords,” Alfred comments, trying as best he can to keep the argument out of his voice. “The closest to Royalty I’ve had is from the people I grew up with and the religion that was all around me.”

Instead of looking angry at the ‘insubordination,’ as his superiors would call it, the Lady looks more amused and even chuckles,  “are you sure you were never born a Beta?”

“If I had been I would have found myself studying some branch of science or math in college, not being hired by the company I work for.”

“How old are you again?”

“…19,” Alfred answers, his response somewhat quiet. He clears his throat, hoping that the Lady had missed the blatant lie. She studies him a moment longer but then sighs and shakes her head. From the steely flash in her gaze, Alfred has a feeling that he’ll be in for another long night of debriefing.

 _Wow,_ he’s hungry.

…

Francis studies his surroundings morosely, the smoke from his cigarette clouding around both him and Arthur. The latter is quietly humming something that is no doubt ironic and Francis absolutely cannot force himself to turn around and face the other Alpha.

Finally, though, the incessant humming stops and Francis can hear the other Alpha’s quick intake of breath. Francis steels himself for whatever’s coming next.

“Well, the Yank most certainly isn’t your brother-dearest.”

Francis drops the cigarette to the ground, stomps on it, and then turns to face the other blonde, one _normal_ -sized eyebrow raised in question,

“Come again, _sourcils_?” Francis asks whilst stepping forward. “Care to repeat that?”

Arthur, his green eyes dancing wickedly, inhales enough smoke that, on a normal person, would no doubt leave them hacking. He doesn’t even look winded. He puffs out a cloud and continues to smirk at the frustrated Frenchman. Finally, he speaks,

“The _resemblance_? Honestly, I look more like Scott than that Yank looks like you. For one thing, he’s prettier and for another thing he looks far softer.”

Francis snorts, “An Omega, if I ever knew one.”

“Omega’s _can_ be fun, you know.”

Francis snorts and stares down at his cigarette, regretting that he’d cast it aside in a fit of anger. He glances back up at the still smirking Englishman and then reaches forward, surprising the bushy-browed miscreant, and snatches the cigarettes out of the other’s hand, putting it to his lips and inhaling some of the sweet, calming nectar. He ignores the indignant sputtering of the other, entirely focused on this moment of peace.

It is, of course, broken by an irritable Englishman.

“You fucking frog! Why did you do that?”

“I should think the answer would be obvious.”

“You fucking wanker,” Arthur growls, glaring acidly at the other. Francis chuckles and winks, smiling faintly around the cigarette still dangling from between his lips,

“Now, _mon amour?_ Or later?”

Arthur snorts but snatches back his cigarette, inhaling deeply and pointedly blowing the foul air in his direction. Francis wrinkles his nose,

“As I was saying,” he continues as the two start walking. “The only truly useful thing Omegas are good for is lying on their backs,” Francis continues, sneering somewhat as they walk. “They are weak, whiny, and leave you wondering if you’d just finished a conversation with a particularly slow child.”

“Be that as it may,” Arthur argues but is interrupted quickly by Francis,

“ _Non_. There is nothing else. I chose Kiku because he was the least irritating proposal thrown my way. Not only that, he is a Beta—he is something that is truly worth my time and attention. Someone with whom I could spend hours on an _interesting_ topic, not some mindless prattle about the latest daycare centre.”

“They’re not all that bad,” Arthur states somewhat lamely. Francis knows that the only reason the smaller Alpha is protesting is because of his dearest in-laws that are beginning to grow in numbers. Being surrounded all the time with Alpha/Omega pheromones of course will mess with an individual’s mind. Be that as it may, Francis snorts.

“Omegas,” he grumbles aloud, wincing as he throws his head back and stares up at the cloudy sky. The sun’s rays between the clouds are somehow piercing. “What we could do without them.”

“I’ve heard tales that Captain America’s an Omega,” Arthur continues, throwing in an age old myth-slash-rumour that’s been around for as long as the man’s been frozen. “Maybe not _all_ Omegas are inept.”

Francis hums, but otherwise ignores the comment. The fact of the matter remains is that Omegas, to most of the world, are practically useless. Though the world is slowly growing more towards tolerance, the fact of the matter remains that nature is the most predominate feature of a person. A CEO of a company could be the most brilliant mind in the world, but if they were Omegas, worried more about breeding, than what good would they be in the business world?

Perhaps Francis doesn’t have anything against the sex as a whole, but when push comes to shove there seems to be little in the way of what Omegas can do outside of breeding.

At least, that’s what Francis’ _papa_ always said while he was growing up.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's another part of the story! I feel like I should warn everyone that when I post these stories, there will be no order. Some stories will be right after this one, some will be between this one and the last one, some will be after the last one. But, the stories are here and yeah! People! Also, I apologize for making Francis and Arthur jerks--I do love them both but given the circumstances, it's kind of understandable and all that--but, things do get better. I swear. If, you know, the first story didn't clue you in. Also, I did a lot of googling on the 'nobles' of France and I kind of hope I got the Marquis/Marquise parts right. If not, please tell me and I shall do some more studying. But, yeah! Break from finals!


End file.
